by Will Cook
He sobered in expression. “Yes. Do you mind? The money isn’t much, but we could live off it if we didn’t get too high on the hog.”
“Is it what you want to do?”
“It’s good thing to do,” he said. “Funny, but I never cared one way or another about the law. I don’t figure I ever broke many laws because I was never in any real trouble. But it was just something I never thought much about. Now it’s different. I like the responsibility, Ella. It makes me a part of something, and I need that. A man just can’t live for himself.” He grinned. “I guess I’ve turned out more serious than you expected. But I guess it’s an improvement.”
“You’re a good man, Marty. I always thought so.” She put her arms around him and kissed him, and she gave him more than he had bargained for, exposing to him the banked fires of passion he had never realized existed. When she pulled away, she laughed and patted his cheek. “I baked a pie for you. Hope it isn’t stale.”
“That wouldn’t matter to me.”
She studied him seriously. “It’s like you to say that. You take life as it comes, Marty. You never prod it and turn it and try to perfect it to suit yourself. I’m going to like being married to you because I’ll never have to pretend or be anything but what I am. If I’ve had a bad day and the meat’s cooked too long and the potatoes half raw and the biscuits burned, you’d eat them and smile and never make me feel that I’d failed in any way.” She kissed him again briefly. “Now I’ll get you the pie. The major sent in word. He wants you back on the post right away. They expect Vargas to attack at any time. Most of the people have left town already.”
“Then what are you doing here?”
She smiled. “I stayed to cut the pie.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Laredo was a ghost town when Martin Hinshaw and Ella Sanders rode through. The people had all packed blankets and food and moved away, camping out on the open range, or staying with friends who lived some distance away. Marty drove Ella’s buggy on to the ranger camp and put up the team while she went to the headquarters building. Colonel Gary and Carl Manners were there and both expressed some annoyance that she hadn’t gone with the others, yet they openly admired her courage for staying.
Gary said: “The doctor has kindly consented to stay. He may need a capable assistant. The stockade is the strongest building on the post. We’ll put you up there.”
“I hope it’s no trouble,” she said.
Manners smiled. “Compared to the trouble we’re expecting, it is nothing.” He took a pair of field glasses from his desk and motioned for her to step to the door. He handed her the glasses to study the Mexican side of the river. For a full minute she moved them back and forth before handing them back, her expression grave.
“He must have a thousand men camped there,” she said.
“Yes. And he wouldn’t have them in the open that way unless he was getting ready to move.” He took her arm. “Colonel Gary will show you to your quarters.” He saw Hinshaw walking toward the porch and beckoned him inside. “Good job on Rameras, Corporal.”
“I almost didn’t… Corporal?”
Manners half hid his smile. “Well, with off-post rations and an increase in pay, it ought to amount to about seventy-five a month. A married man needs that to live properly.” Then he swung the subject around, moving to a wall map of the camp. “Here’s where we’ve placed the machine guns. Gary has trained teams in their use, and they’ve already been zeroed in on the river. Our entire defense depends on those guns, Marty. We’re going to let the Mexicans get to our side before opening up, then we’ll lay down a barrage and make them ride through it.”
“They will,” Hinshaw said.
Manners nodded. “Yes, they’ll try to take the weapon positions, but you can see that they’re well back from the entrenchments. It will be up to you riflemen to protect the weapon positions and drive the remainder back. Even in retreat they’ll have to go through our fire again.” His manner grew severe. “We may not whip them, Marty. The best we can do is to so reduce them in numbers that their back will be broken. Weakened, the Mexican army that is marching north may finish them off. Yes, it was the deal Gary made. We’d weaken them, push them back, and the Mexican army would have the glory and honor of finishing the job. It was the only way he could work it. They wanted the biggest piece of cake, or they wouldn’t play.”
“Well, I guess if I got to die, I’d rather do it for the State of Texas than anyone else,” Hinshaw said. “See you around, Major.” He went out and off the porch and found a place in a trench. There he noticed that all the rangers were armed with Mauser rifles and plenty of ammunition.
“Where’d these come from?” he asked.
“McCabe and Gary found ’em at Carlisle’s place,” the ranger said. “In the wagon shed. In between all the two by four uprights, rifle racks had been built. They ripped off some of the wall sheeting and found over a hundred of ’em.” He slapped the walnut stock. “They sure beat a .30-30 for power and accuracy.”
“You’re liable to get plenty of practice,” Hinshaw said.
The day turned out long and warm. Hinshaw grew tired of waiting. Finally he left the trench and went to see the major who sat on the headquarters porch, binoculars in hand and rifle by his side.
“Yes, what is it, Hinshaw?”
“Major, I’d like to have permission to cross the river and talk to Vargas.”
“You’re out of your mind!” He waved his hand. “Go back to your trench and keep your hat on. The sun’s getting to you.”
“Major, it’s a lot better for one man to run the risks than to get half or more killed.” He took hold of Manners’s sleeve. “Let me hold a parley with Vargas.”
Manners studied him. “What would you say?”
“I’d put the cards face up on the table, tell him what he was up against if he crosses the river. I’ll try to show him how much better it is to walk away from this one. We’ve cut off his guns and ammunition source. Six months from now he’ll be on the die-up, his men deserting to go back to the farms. I can’t believe the man’s enough of a fool to risk four or five hundred men just to. . . . “ He looked at Manners who was holding the field glasses to his eyes. He handed them to Hinshaw, and he could see the movement across the river, the movement toward the river.
“Too late for talk now,” Manners said, taking the glasses back. He began shouting orders while Hinshaw went back to his trench and picked up his rifle.
It was too bad, he thought, that the crossing would be just out of rifle range, for the rangers could do a lot of damage with the Mausers while the Mexicans advanced.
Guthrie McCabe sprinted across the yard, surprisingly spry for his age. He jumped into the trench with Hinshaw, and said: “Feeling brave, squirt?”
“Nope.”
“When the shootin’ starts, a man could move around considerable without being noticed,” McCabe said.
“What’s on your evil old mind?”
“Catchin’ Vargas before he gets away. If we had him prisoner, we could force the others to withdraw.”
“You’re crazy.”
“Sure, and I’m looking for someone as crazy as I am to help me. Game?”
Hinshaw grinned. “I’ll probably have to carry you back, but let’s go.”
They made their way toward the crossing and took cover in the brush. McCabe had no rifle, just his long-barreled .45. He advised Hinshaw to put the Mauser aside and use his pistol. “You won’t have time to use that,” he said. “Besides Vargas has got to be taken alive.”
“What about them flyin’ bullets?” Hinshaw asked. “Seems to me we’re hunkered down in the middle of the target.”
“Naw,” McCabe said.. “We’re too close to the river. The machine guns are all zeroed in fifty yards beyond. They didn’t want to catch the Mexicans in the water.” He pointed to the first file of mounted bandits approaching the crossing. “Seven or eight abreast. There’s Vargas on that white horse.” He squinted. “Maybe a hundred-yard d
ash to him as soon as the shelling starts. Get your runnin’ shoes on, squirt.” He wiped the sweat from his palm and took a new grip on his revolver.
“Scared, ain’t you?”
“Plumb scared,” McCabe said. “I ain’t a fool, you know. I like livin’. Hate dyin’.”
The Mexicans were in the water when they broke into a trot and, above the sound of mounted men, came the sparkling tones of a brassy bugle and an answering call, and suddenly a scattered rattle of small-arms fire. Already Vargas was to the Texas side of the river. He paused, sitting his splendid horse, while he turned and looked back.
His column was halted. From the rear firing broke out in a furious rattle, and McCabe swore gleefully. “That damned Mexican general’s attackin’ ’em!”
Vargas was shouting orders, trying to wheel his column about to meet this new challenge. Several of the weapon positions opened up, and the rain of bullets thinned their ranks, frightening the horses.
“Now,” McCabe said, and left his cover one jump ahead of Hinshaw.
As they covered the ground separating them, Hinshaw was again amazed at how spry the old man was. They were within thirty yards of Vargas before he ever realized he was in danger. He pulled one of his pearl-handled pistols and started banging away, but the machine gun fire behind him was setting up a din, an impassable wall. Vargas fought his horse, and the beast was almost unmanageable, which made his aim poor.
The bulk of Vargas’s command was already returning to the Mexican side where the Army had them pinned down. Vargas, realizing that he was alone and virtually cut off, jabbed spurs to his horse. McCabe stopped, sighted, and coolly killed the animal.
Vargas fell in a roll and lost his pistol, and they closed with him. The firing was thick and bullets dimpled the earth near them, but Hinshaw was too frightened to care. McCabe was on Vargas, clubbing with his pistol. Hinshaw felt something nip the calf of his left leg, and he spun around and fell heavily. When he looked down, he saw blood soaking the leg of his pants, and he knew he’d been hit.
“Go on!” he yelled to McCabe. “Go on, get out of here!”
The machine gun fire suddenly ceased. McCabe began to drag Vargas away from the river. Then he dropped him and came back for Hinshaw, who cursed him for being an old fool.
“Always pay my debts,” McCabe said, and pulled Hinshaw two dozen yards. He put him near Vargas, who was groaning and trying to sit up.
Hinshaw laughed and said: “It seems we’re always hitting him on the head.”
“Ain’t that a fact,” McCabe said. He went over and ripped open Vargas’s sleeve and took a small automatic pistol from the spring clip. “Got nipped with this once,” McCabe said. “And once is enough.”
A dozen rangers came toward them at a run, Major Manners leading them. When he got close enough, he yelled: “I’m going to court-martial both of you!” He had Hinshaw helped to his feet and Vargas made prisoner, and they hurried back away from the river.
But the danger had passed, for the Mexican army, bolstered by three companies of cavalry, were already surrounding the bandits. Little by little, the shooting died away as isolated pockets of resistance fell.
Hinshaw was placed on the porch, and the doctor summoned. Ella Sanders ran to him and would have thrown herself in his arms if the doctor hadn’t peered at her over his glasses and said: “Act like a nurse, now.”
A ring of rangers surrounded Pedro Vargas. McCabe was one of them. Manners said: “I see you accepted my offer, bandit.”
“How could I refuse?” Vargas asked. “Permit me to have a cigarette?”
“Give him a smoke,” Manners said. A retinue of Mexican army officers were crossing the river. The battle was won, and Manners supposed they couldn’t resist bragging about it. “Lock him in the stockade. Put him in a cell next to Rameras. They might as well enjoy the conversation because they’ll hang together.” He looked at Hinshaw. “I don’t think you’re going to die. Miss Sanders, have someone hitch up a buggy and take this squirt home. Keep him in bed, so I’ll know where to find him.” He blew out a long breath, for he was a man with many problems and an uncertain control over his men. “And I want to talk to you, McCabe.”
“Suits me because I want to talk to you,” McCabe said. “About retiring.”
“Can you really mean that?” Manners said.
“Now you know you’re going to miss me,” McCabe said. “I’ll go along with the squirt, but, when I come back tomorrow, I’ll expect my papers to be ready. I’m going to California and sit under an orange tree. Never saw one, you know.”
“Oh, my,” Manners said, and went off the porch to meet the approaching army officers.
McCabe said: “He won’t last. Ought to get him another job. Gets rattled too easy.” He looked at Hinshaw and grinned. “Who’d you say was going to carry who, squirt?” He hauled Hinshaw to his feet and held him. “Miss Sanders, I hope you can take this. He ain’t going to change, you know. He’ll never have good sense. He’ll always be doing one fool thing or another.”
“Why you old billy goat!” Hinshaw said. “You talked me into this!”
McCabe laughed. “See what I mean? If he’d had good sense, he wouldn’t have listened to me. Take his other arm, and we’ll get him to the buggy before he falls and hurts himself.”